> > > > > Act I
JOAN
opens the door, and LAINE stumbles in, carrying a broken pitcher.
LAINE is a poorly-clad slip of a girl with a little, wan, pinched
face, framed in a tightly fitting cap. One of her shoulders is
hunched, and she hobbles with the aid of a crutch. SIMON and JOAN
bear her tenderly to a seat as a mob of lads and girls, in
holiday attire, appear in the alley. A few follow JACQUELINE into
the room, others thrust their heads in at the window. A youth
commences to ply SIMON's loom vigorously, while PEPPIN — a
hideous, big-headed dwarf — swarms up the steps leading to the
loft, and sits there surveying the scene.
JACQUELINE — a ragged
young woman with a towzled head and bright, mischievous eyes —
does her best to keep the crowd at bay.
| WOMEN. |
MEN. |
| Hobble, hobble, now we've caught her, |
|
| Scuttling home-ward |
|
| like a rat, |
Hobble, hobble, |
| Limping Laine, the weaver's daughter! |
now we've caught her, Scuttling home-ward |
| By St. Joseph, look at that! |
like a rat, Limping Laine, |
| Hobble, hobble, |
the weaver's daughter! |
| now we've caught her, |
By St. Joseph, |
| Scuttling home-ward |
look at that! |
| like a rat, |
By St. Jo- |
| seph, look |
| By St. Jo- |
at that! |
| seph, look |
|
| at that! |
By St. Jo- |
| seph, look |
| look at that! |
at that! |
| Look at that! look at that! |
Look at that! look at that! |
| Look at that! look at that! |
Look at that! look at that! |
| JOAN. |
Aye, 'tis Laine, our crippled daughter!
By St. Joseph, look at that! |
| WOMEN. |
Saints above us, what a couple! |
| MEN. |
|
Sooth he's fashioned like a sickle, |
| WOMEN. |
All his back is bent and double, — |
| MEN. |
|
and his legs are not a pair! |
| WOMEN. |
MEN. |
| Lo! her skin is |
|
| made of leather that has |
Lo! her skin is made of |
| soaked too long in pickle, |
leather that has soaked too |
| And her eyes are hung in |
long in pickle, And her |
| cobwebs! see, there's mildew in her hair! |
eyes are hung in cobwebs! see, there's mil- |
| Lo! her skin is made of leather that has |
dew in her hair! Lo! her skin is made of |
| soaked too long in pickle, |
leather that has soaked too |
| And her eyes are hung in cobwebs! |
long in pickle, And her eyes are |
| see, there's mildew in her hair! |
hung in cobwebs! see, there's mil- |
|
dew in her hair! |
| SIMON. |
Holy Mother! have a care! |
| CHORUS. |
|
That's her father! And the other?
That's her mother!
What a pair! |
| SIMON. |
Holy Mother! would ye dare? would ye dare? would ye dare?
Holy Mother! would ye dare? |
| CHORUS. |
Nay, sir Weaver, spare your cudgel, and
when next your crooked |
| |
|
|
daughter |
| |
|
Limps and hobble o'er the cobbles, with
her body turned askew, |
| |
Patch and mend her ere ye send her to
the gossips' well for water, |
| |
|
Lest we take her crutch and rend
her! Holy Mother, what a crew! |
| SIMON. |
Carrion kites, what would ye do? |
| SIMON |
CHORUS |
|
Patch and mend her |
| Carrion kites, |
ere you send |
|
her to the |
| what would ye do? |
gossip's well for wa- |
|
ter, Holy Mother, |
| Carrrion kites, |
|
|
what a crew! |
| what would ye do? |
|
|
Holy Mother, |
| Carrion kites, |
|
|
what a crew! |
| what would ye do? |
|
|
what a pair! |
| what would ye do? |
|
| ye carrion kites, what would ye do? |
|
|
|
|
Page modified 14 September 2011
